


Inevitable

by thisismy_design (thisismydesignn)



Category: Divergent Series - Veronica Roth
Genre: Blood, Dom/sub Undertones, Light Masochism, Light Sadism, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-17 01:05:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1368271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisismydesignn/pseuds/thisismy_design
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eric sees the potential in Peter and he wants to use it, take it apart; wants to take <i>him</i> apart, make him his own, make Peter beg for more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inevitable

**Author's Note:**

> Have only read read/seen Divergent, so this includes no spoilers for Insurgent or Allegiant.
> 
> Warning for excessive use of run-on sentences.

This is how it begins.

Tris is at Peter’s mercy, flat on the ground as he stands over her. He could do anything to her, anything at all—

—and he looks at Eric.

It sends a thrill through the Dauntless leader, those dark eyes on him, asking _permission_. It’s the respect he’s always craved, the power he’s always deserved.

He gives Peter a nod.

He watches him bring his foot down, watches Tris’s world go black.

He watches, and he _wants_.  
  


* * *

  
Eric asks Peter to stay behind. Asks him if he’d like more time in the ring, more practice. “You’ve got potential,” he tells him. “You could be a leader someday.”

He sees Peter’s eyes light up, and he can’t decide whether he’d like to feed that flame or watch it go out.

Eric takes it upon himself to spend more time with the initiate— to teach him, to train him, to beat the shit out of him— it doesn’t matter. He can do anything he wants to the boy, and Peter will just lift his head, bruises blossoming along his cheekbones, and ask for more.

He pins Peter to the ground with an arm twisted behind his back and listens to him pant, waiting, wanting. Peter pushes back, but Eric’s got the upper hand; a bit more pressure and Peter’s gasping, whining— surrendering.

Listening to the noises that escape Peter’s lips, _hearing_ his pain, pushing him to the breaking point: it’s then that Eric realizes he’s half-hard, and he leans in too close so that Peter can feel Eric’s breath on his neck, the press of his hips and everything in between.

“I think that’s enough for today, don’t you?” and he rolls off the initiate without another word, leaving him to collapse against the mat, exhausted and frustrated and desperate in more ways than one.

Eric heads for the showers, craving cold water against his skin, the rough grip of his own hand, forehead pressed to the wall as he recalls the way Peter rocked back _against_ him, purposeful, hungry.

_Two can play at that game_.  
  


* * *

  
They’re toe to toe, and neither is backing down. Close enough that Peter can feel Eric’s breath ghost over his lips, close enough to let his eyes wander over the outline of each tattoo.

“C’mon, initiate,” Eric murmurs, the corner of his lips rising as he watches Peter watch him. “Today.”

He lets Peter pin him, though it takes everything in him _not_ to fight back; feels the weight of Peter’s body settle over his own, blood rushing in his ears, adrenaline pumping through his veins.

It’s not just him: Peter’s hard too, and he grinds against Eric once, twice, hesitates a moment before he leans down, kisses him hard enough to draw blood, tasting metal in his mouth as he pushes back, gets to his feet and offers Eric his hand.

Eric doesn’t take it.

“Tomorrow, same time, same place, _initiate_ ,” and the last word comes out like a slap to the face. He savors Peter’s flinch as he strides past, the slightest bit of contact sending a spark of electricity between them. It’s nowhere near enough: he considers turning back, forcing Peter to his knees, but that feels too much like surrender.

He keeps walking, puts one foot in front of the other and imagines driving it into Peter’s face instead (into Tris’s, into _Four’s_ )— keeps walking, keeps hoping to hear the echo of footsteps behind him, because he may be Dauntless but he’s only human.  
  


* * *

  
“Tomorrow” comes sooner than expected.

Peter finds Eric in the Pit that night, drunk off his ass; wraps his lips around a bottle of his own and all Eric can think is how nice those lips would look wrapped around his cock.

Eric can’t help but smirk when Peter murmurs something about “seeing how the other half lives,” lets Peter follow him back to his room; he knows he should say no, but he’s also seen the way Four looks at the Stiff, and, well. There’s no rule that says he can’t.

He pins Peter against the wall outside of his room, doesn’t care who sees. He kisses him hard, gropes him harder and doesn’t let Peter inside until his cheeks are burning red with the blood that hasn’t already rushed to his cock.

“What do you want?” he asks once they’re inside, the backs of Peter’s knees pressed to his bed. “Whatever _you_ want,” comes the answer, and Eric’s head spins with the possibilities: there’s the handcuffs beside the bed, the knife in his pocket, the hands that can inflict as much pain as pleasure.

He settles for stripping Peter down to nothing, fucking him from behind with nowhere near enough preparation. He pushes him into the bed and reaches around to jerk him off, tightening his grasp as he hears a sob escape Peter’s throat. ( _Might take it easy on you if you cry,_ Eric thinks, remembering Peter’s words to Tris, but if anything he does the opposite. He fucks Peter just this side of too hard, leaving him with bruises to remember: along his hips, his neck, the tattoos that decorate his arms.)

He kicks him out once they’ve both come, sheets a mess and exhausted like he hasn’t been since— since he fought Four, since he faced his fears— tells him nothing has changed, and Peter grins, cheeky as ever, shifting from one foot to the other. “I never expected it to,” and Eric pulls him in, crushes his mouth against Peter’s because the boy’s earned a reward, if nothing else.

Eric sends him on his way, but an edge of unease lingers in the back of his mind. Something in Peter’s stance, in the glint of his gaze, tells him that the boy has his mind set on acting out, young and drunk and reckless with nothing (or, perhaps, everything) to lose.  
  


* * *

  
Head down, bruised ribs, Four’s bloody knuckles: the picture forms in Eric’s mind before Peter even opens his mouth, tries to explain in stuttered words and broken phrases that add up to nothing at all.

Eric’s gentler this time, watching Peter’s face as he thrusts inside, hands settling against bruised skin only when Peter seems a million miles away. “You’re here,” Eric tells him, “with me, now,” and Peter clings to him when he comes, wincing and gasping and it’s all Eric can do to hold on for a few moments longer.

Somewhere along the way, the wires got crossed in his brain: he wants to make Peter curse with pleasure, cry with pain, and he settles for someplace in between, knowing the boy wants this as much as he does but unable to resist making it _hurt_ just a bit.

“C’mon, initiate,” and maybe someday he’ll use Peter’s name, but he can’t resist his pained expression, as though Peter means no more to him than Will, than Christina, than Tris.

(He does, but he’s not sure Peter will ever know that; not sure he’ll ever admit it to himself, no less, though with Peter’s tongue in his mouth, body aligned flawlessly with his own, he’s not sure he could deny it, either.)  
  


* * *

  
“You could be a leader someday,” Eric had told Peter, and maybe it was no more than a line but maybe, Peter thinks, maybe it was true.

He’s still conscious while the rest of Dauntless is under Jeanine’s control, and he’d like to think that’s more than favoritism at work. Still, he knows better than to hope, to believe he’s deserving of preferential treatment, and he gives in too easily to Tris’s demands, to the gun in her hand.

_(Forgive me, Eric,_ he thinks, but he knows Eric would never be so weak. Eric would never give in, or maybe he would, because Dauntless are brave but Dauntless are _selfish,_ claiming to protect others but far more willing to protect themselves.)

He shoves the thought down, because _faction before blood,_ because he’s no longer Candor. He can lie to himself, to the others, even if he’s never been able to lie to Eric.

“Gotta keep that Candor tongue under control,” the Dauntless leader had told him, curling a hand in his hair (in the arena, between the sheets), and he’d have agreed to anything just to taste him one more time.  
  


* * *

  
This is how it ends.

Bleeding, breathing shallow and pained as he imagines how Eric would punish him for his betrayal.

_Forgive me,_ and he remembers the first time Eric called him by name, curled up between his sheets on one of the rare occasions he didn’t force Peter to leave. He would’ve stayed there forever, given the chance— pressed against bare, inked skin, hungry for Eric’s hum of approval, for the feel of fingers wrapped around his wrists, pinned to the bed, to the floor, for the bite of nails against his scalp.

The train rattles beneath him, leaving him unsettled, trembling like every time Eric laid a hand on him but with none of the satisfaction that followed. He stumbles off with a heavy heart, hands sticky with blood, thinking of the first time his fist connected with Eric’s jaw and the Dauntless leader grinned up at him, eyes glinting, teeth red. “Not bad,” he’d conceded, and Peter tasted blood in his mouth even before Eric kissed him.

He tastes blood now, the tang of rust on his tongue, but it tastes like failure, like disappointment, like shame. He keeps his head down, because there’s no one to look to this time, no one to ask permission, to ask forgiveness.

It started with Tris’s blood on his hands; it ends with Peter’s blood on hers. He wants to blame Eric, but he knows there’s no one to blame but himself. He imagines seeing Eric again, imagines his fingers curled around that tattooed throat, but it feels more like choking the life out of himself, like he couldn’t do it even if he tried.

( _Forgive me_ , he thinks one last time, and falls into step behind Tris like the coward he is.)


End file.
